


Double Recovery

by mapleandmahogany



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Caretaking, Christmas, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Old Married Couple, hurt for the holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8839138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mapleandmahogany/pseuds/mapleandmahogany
Summary: Clint and Phil take care of each other after a rough mission.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CallToMuster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallToMuster/gifts).



> Dear CallToMuster, we don't know each other but I was so happy to write for another C/C fan! After lots of pondering your prompts and perimeters, and reading a few of your own stories, I was inspired with this little moment-in-time scene. I hope you enjoy it, and sincerely hope you find it honoring your preferences. Happy Holidays!

~

 

Just. Everything hurt. Phil sat on the edge of the medical bed, zoned out, staring at the swirly writing of _Happy Holidays!_ as read backwards from where it was craft-painted on the glass dividing wall. Somewhere out at the staff station, a tinny Mariah was singing ‘All I Want For Christmas’ and he realized that yet another year had gone by without re-watching Love Actually. He wondered if it was as good as he remembered and then thought maybe it was best if he just remembered it fondly instead. 

 

Phil brought himself back to the present, focusing on Clint, sitting on his own med-bed and arguing with the doctor.

 

“Will you please try again, Agent Barton? I know it’s uncomfortable and awkward for you, but--”

 

“You can ask as polite as you want, Doc, I’m not peeing in a pan for you.”

 

“I understand that, but will you try going to the restroom at least? On your own--” Clint was already shaking his head, so she rushed to finish speaking “--just because we’ve cleared you for rupture and internal laceration doesn’t mean you aren’t at real risk for kidney malfunction. If we can’t determine--”

 

“Yeah, I know how it works!” Clint snarled, and Phil admired the doctor’s calm professionalism in the face of an angry and wounded Hawkeye. “If I can’t take a piss, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

 

Agent Encinas was a short, no-nonsense second year resident who had already treated both of them at least three times in her first rotation. She sighed and took a step back.

 

“Believe it or not, I only want to help. I take no pleasure in making you uncomfortable.”

 

Clint’s shoulders slumped, and he looked up at her with bruised, heavy-lidded eyes. “I can’t do it, okay? I can’t relax here,” he said quietly, the sound of defeat tinged with defiance. “But I know the danger signs.”

 

She met his solemn gaze and her posture surrendered to his puppy eyes. “Alright, then. Fever, chills, sudden spike in pain.” 

 

Clint nodded, already making an effort to get up. 

 

“Nausea, vomiting. And there’s likely to be blood darkening your urine in any case, but if it increases--”

 

“Yeah, trust me,” Clint said with a humorless laugh. “Blood coming out my dick’ll bother me more than you.”

 

“Agent Coulson?” Agent Encinas said, turning toward Phil. “You’ll be with him?”

 

Phil’s eyes flickered to Clint’s, and Clint gave him a glimmer of a smile before wincing as he pulled on a t-shirt. Their personal life together was a well-known secret, maybe slightly more _known_ by the medical division than the rest of SHIELD, but that was as confidential as they could hope for.

 

“Yes,” Phil said. “I’ll nag him incessantly.”

 

Clint laughed from inside his t-shirt. 

 

Agent Encinas nodded. “And you, sir, be on the lookout for changes in vision, irregular sense of smell, or numbing and weakness in your extremities.”

 

She glanced at Clint, who gave a nod. He’d look after Phil as well.

 

“I will report any such occurrences,” Phil agreed. “Today, or any day.”

 

Clint snorted, and Agent Encinas pursed her lips at the both of them. 

 

“I’m on shift for another six hours if anything comes up. And,” she lowered her voice, “you can call me directly if you don’t want to go through channels.”

 

“Thanks, Doc. Will do,” Clint said, reaching for Phil’s elbow and already heading, albeit slowly, toward the exit.

 

“I’m paging transport to take you home.”

 

“That won’t be--” Phil began, but then closed his mouth. His knee-jerk reaction was to decline. He always preferred to drive himself, or to take the subway and walk a few blocks, wanting to maintain his connection to the city in a way he couldn’t if he was concealed away in the executive privilege of agency transport, but today he and Clint were no shape to manage anything else. “Actually, that would be very helpful.”

 

“Thanks, Doc, " Clint said, agreeing. 

 

“We’ll head to the pick-up bay,” Phil said.

 

“Goodnight, Agents. Good work in the field.”

 

They both nodded acceptance, though taking praise didn’t come easily. They walked slowly and painfully, supporting each other down the halls, trying not to touch anything that had been beaten, bruised or abraded. 

 

“Fuck, I thought she was gonna pull protocol and admit me,” Clint said once they exited the ward.

 

“She’s learned better by now, I think.”

 

“Hey, you okay?” Clint asked. Phil realized Clint wasn’t quite standing upright because he was looking slightly up at Phil. 

 

“I feel like I’ve been knocked forty feet through the air and slammed into a metal wall.” Phil pushed the button for the elevator.

 

“Ah-ha. Funny,” Clint said, unamused, because that’s exactly what had happened, but they used humor to cope with situations like this. “I hear you left a Phil-shaped indent.”

 

“Agent Gibbs said he took a picture.”

 

“You do leave your mark.” 

 

Phil mustered a courtesy snort at the remark but couldn’t manage much else.

 

They exited the building into a cold, damp New York City night. The city’s sounds were muffled by gusts of wind whipping past the building, and the smell of the subway wafted up towards them. 

 

“So where to?” Phil looked a question at Clint. “The tower?”

 

“Hh-mm.” Clint jerked his head with a grunt, not even considering it. Clint had a lot of affection for his team, and gratitude for Stark’s generosity, but he found all that gloss and glitter confronting, even when he was feeling his best.

 

“Alright.” Phil brushed his fingers lightly over Clint’s ear and then kissed his forehead. Clint leaned closer to him. “We could just get a suite at HQ next door?” Phil suggested. “Be in a bed in five minutes.” Fifteen maybe. 

 

“Home.”

 

“But all the stairs, you--”

 

“Phil. I want to go _home_.” Clint pressed closer, pushing slightly and Phil hugged him. Clint certainly wasn’t asking Phil’s permission. He was determined, but there was definitely a plea in there for Phil to understand.

 

“Okay. That’s fine. We’ll make it work.” Phil pressed a kiss to the side of his face again, already thinking about having to call in for food and hoping Clint’s apartment hadn’t been left sitting with dirty dishes and trash needing to go out.

 

“You sirs my pick up?” 

 

Phil knew that voice, and he was smiling before he even looked at the man. “Agent Mack.” 

 

“Evening, boss.” 

 

The robust agent dwarfed them both in height and girth and looked as sharp as any duty agent in his well-cut black suit. They usually saw him when he was under cover: lumbering and unkempt, a big, scruffy, white truck driver named after the semi-trailer truck he drove; he not to be confused with Phil’s Alphonso Mackenzie. 

 

"Hey, Big Mack!” Clint said with a flinching smile and as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but Mack wasn’t fooled.

 

Phil and Clint were wearing mismatched clothes after taking off their bloodied things, and while medical had cleaned them up, their wounds were obviously raw and fresh, and Mack assessed them with a frown.

 

“Hawkeye,” Agent Mack said, as he opened the back passenger door. “You get shorter?”

 

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Hoss,” Clint said. “I’m as big as ever.”

 

Mack snorted. “You’re way too little to go throwing yourself in front of freight trains, buddy.”

 

“Yeah, I keep forgetting that,” Clint joked, but his effort at humor was cut off by an exhale and a wince.

 

Mack’s face flickered with concern, and he stepped forward.

 

“Alright now, take it easy,” Mack said, his deep voice going gentle and warm, a little of his sweet-tea Southern dripping around his vowels. Clint and Phil were basically supporting each other to stand upright, and Mack put his broad arm around Clint and guided him into the car. The fact that Clint allowed himself be led without a fuss, spoke to how much he needed the help. 

 

“Watch your head there. Okie-doke,” he cooed when Clint was settled in the backseat, and he shut the door.

 

“Tell me true, now, sir,” Mack said, turning to Phil as he escorted him around the car. “Have you two been discharged? Not saying I won’t take you anywhere you want anyhow, but you two on the lam? I need to watch my rear view mirror?”

 

Phil tried to give him a reassuring smile but even his smile muscles hurt, leaving his expression a grimace more than anything.

 

“We’re cleared, agent, but thank you for your discretion.” It was reassuring to know Mack would take them off the grid if they asked.

 

“If you wouldn’t mind just taking us to Clint’s building. You remember it?”

 

“Bed Stuy, on Quincy? Yeah, I’ll get you there,” Mack said, hovering near Phil like a helicopter dad with an errant toddler, as Phil slowly climbed into the backseat next to Clint.

 

Phil let out an unintentional whimper and then a groan of relief when he was seated.

 

“Hold up just a sec,” Mack said, and moved the trunk of the sedan. He returned with what appeared to be his own puffy thermal coat. “Something soft-like, to lean on.”

 

Phil took the coat but wasn’t quite able to muster any word of thanks. 

 

Mack looked past him at Clint slumping against the window and holding himself carefully.

 

“How long?” Mack asked in a low voice, but with no intention of trying to actually keep Clint from hearing him.

 

Phil looked up at Mack, feeling his insides go cold and watery. Because a fight, a really nasty battle even, would leave you looking like hell. But when you’ve been restrained and passively beaten the way Clint had been, that looked different, and Mack knew it.

 

A SHIELD team along with volunteer Avenger Hawkeye had been clearing civilians as insurgents attacked a village using blackmarket Chitauri weapons. Clint had made a last stand, sacrificing himself so the evac could get clear. 

 

That was when Phil had been called.

 

Phil gritted his teeth and nodded his head just once. “It was several hours before we recovered him.” He knew Clint was listening, and Phil was so damn proud of him. “He played bait so everyone could make it.”

 

Mack nodded with... not a smile, but a kindly look of acknowledgment. He was proud of Clint, too. “‘Course he did.”

 

“Phil rescued me, though.” Clint piped up.

 

“Course he did! The two of you, I declare. You’ll have a smooth ride home, now, don’t you worry,” he said, thumping the roof once and shutting the door.

 

Phil folded Mack’s puffy coat, put it against the door, and slumped sideways into it with a sigh, holding up his arm to welcome Clint to lie against him. 

 

“Time is it?” Clint asked, shifting close with a sniff, then carefully situating himself against Phil’s side. 

 

“Almost eleven, I think.” Phil looked at his bare wrist where his watch should’ve been. He’d removed it in medical and wasn’t sure where it was.

 

Neither of them attempted to sleep during the drive, but they had been lulled into a tightly wound rest when the thumping seams of the Williamsburg Bridge roused them to shift their weight again. Mack was playing a moody country-pop radio station, singing quietly to himself, when one song warbled into another, which Phil recognized as a twangy but sincere cover of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’.

 

“I thought I missed Christmas,” Clint said, squinting at the multi-colored lights and shiny garland dangling haphazardly around a liquor store sign.

 

“Nah, it’s Christmas Eve, buddy,” Mack said, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “Well, almost Christmas Day, s’pose.”

 

Clint turned to look at Phil with stunned adoration. “You rescued me on Christmas Eve?”

 

“Oh. Well.” Phil shrugged. “Timezones make things complicated, I guess it depends on when--”

 

He stopped talking when Clint clutched the arm of his jacket and leaned in. 

 

“Thank you,” Clint whispered.

 

Phil pressed his mouth into Clint’s hair and closed his eyes. Clint had been give a spotty antiseptic wipe down and was wearing a clean scrub top, but--

 

“I smell. I know it. Sorry.”

 

“You don’t need to apologize.”

 

“Think I pissed myself a little after getting kicked in the balls. Haven’t brushed my teeth in ages.”

 

“You can’t think that’s important to me right now. Having you back, here in my arms,” he said low, close to Clint’s ear, “that’s what matters to me.”

 

“Well it matters to me,” Clint grumbled.

 

Mack pulled the car as close as he could to the building entrance, double parked between a utility van and an old Cadillac. 

 

“You’ve been a pal, buddy,” Clint grunted as he heaved himself out of the already open door. “Thanks for the lift.” 

 

“But I was--!” Mack started.

 

“It’s alright,” Phil said, sliding carefully across the seat to exit the open door. “Thank you for the ride. And for the use of your coat.”

 

“I can walk you up, sir. No one’s gonna fuss about the double park.”

 

Phil leaned back down, aching as he did, bracing himself on the roof of the car. “It’s really not necessary. He’s going to insist on doing this himself.”

 

“Alright. That stubborn…” 

 

Phil couldn’t hear the rest of Mack’s grumbled words but he was familiar with the frustrated sentiment Clint evoked in people.

 

“If I can ever pay back the favor…” Phil started, but Mack waved a hand at him.

 

“Just doin’ my job, sir. Merry Christmas!”

 

Phil was slow moving but Clint hadn’t gone far ahead. He caught up with Clint halfway up the first staircase. He was wincing with each step and puffing breaths in between.

 

“Don’t,” Clint said through clenched teeth.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t say it.”

 

“I haven’t said a thing.”

 

“As good as.”

 

“I have not.”

 

“Phil. You damn pain in the ass.”

 

“Because I’m walking up the stairs with you? That’s very uncharitable.”

 

“I know what you’re thinking.”

 

“You couldn’t possibly. My thoughts are a mystery.”

 

“Not to me--argh…” Clint broke off into a groan, slumping against the stair rail and blatantly holding his balls.

 

Phil gave him a moment. Clint could be as snarly as a dog when hurt, but then Phil approached slowly, projecting passive body language, being a companion and not a protector. 

 

“Please let me be of help. We can do it together.”

 

“I’m just so tired.”

 

“You’re a lot more than tired.” Phil closed his eyes, picturing the bruises taking the shape of boot prints.

 

“Yeah, well, I smell, too.”

 

Phil nudged his shoulder, very gently, but it made Clint look at him. Phil didn’t smile, nothing so overt, but he thought of about how much he loved Clint, and whatever Clint saw, it softened some of his brittle anger. 

 

“Yeah, okay.” Clint extended his arm and let Phil stoop under it, standing to shoulder a bit of Clint's weight.

 

“It’s going up the step with my left foot that just kills my left nut.”

 

“I got you.” Phil let Clint use him as a crutch as he pulled and slumped his way up each stair. 

 

“Almost there. Easy does it.” Phil couldn’t keep himself from gentle encouragement.

 

When they finally reached apartment H, they had to catch their breath and contemplate how to get in.

 

“Keys?” Phil asked.

 

Clint let out a humorless laugh. “No.”

 

“Well--” 

 

The next door opened and Senora Núñez’s face poked out at them with a glare. She squinted when she saw them. “Clint, is that you?”

 

“Yeah, Mrs. Núñez. It’s me.” Clint attempted to stand more upright, but the effort it took was obvious. “And Phil, too.”

 

She was dressed nicely, already wearing her coat and looking ready to head out for midnight mass. 

 

“Si, Phillip, too. You make it home for Christmas.” She smiled and touched the garnet rosary hanging around her neck. “Aw, pobrecito,” she murmured, as she took in Clint’s appearance. “Esperame!” 

 

She turned back into her apartment and they both slumped against Clint's door, but she returned immediately with a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. “Empanaditas de carne.” She patted the foil as she shoved it into Clint’s hands. “Beef.” She added in flat-voweled American tone, and a quick wink. “Still warm. Don’t put in microwave.”

 

“Gracias, Mrs. Núñez.” Clint smelled the packaged with closed eyes.

 

“Thank you. Señora?” Phil asked. “Do you happen to have a key to Clint’s apartment?”

 

“Key? No.” She looked back and forth between them, frowning, then raised her eyebrows. “Que, _spies_.” She rolled her eyes and flapped a hand. “It’s _unlocked_.” She pointed at the doorknob in question. 

 

Phil looked at it and then numbly reached out and turned the knob. The door opened smoothly. 

 

“Really?” Phil looked up at Clint.

 

“What? So I forget sometimes. Nobody breaks in here, anyway.” 

 

Clint made an acknowledging gesture towards Mrs. Núñez, still clutching the package of pastry. “Merry Christmas,” he said to her, and limped inside, doing his best to hide his wince from Mrs. Núñez.

 

She shook her head after him. Phil shrugged, nodded, because he understood completely, and followed Clint inside.

 

Phil hadn’t been to the apartment in a month or more, Clint just a couple weeks earlier. The heat was on, though, and the dishes mostly done. It didn’t smell like trash or pizza boxes, so someone must have tidied and checked in on the place. Clint had friends, and the neighbors seemed to understand that Clint sacrificed himself for the greater good, so they helped him maintain the tedious adulting responsibilities that he wasn’t as good at. Phil wished he could thank them all, but the number was too great.

 

He gazed after Clint who was silhouetted in the bathroom light, and he felt his heart clench. A wave of mingled relief and regret shivered through him. His throat tightened, and his eyes got hot and watery.

 

 _Another close call_ , he thought. _How many more do we get?_

 

Clint turned the shower on, and Phil used the sound of it to sniff and clear his throat. He didn’t want Clint to spend any energy worrying about him when he was so sore himself.

 

“Hey, Phil!” Clint called, just loud enough to be heard over the running water, but with no sound of alarm in his voice.

 

Phil squinted in the harsh bathroom light as he approached, and stood in front of Clint, who’d sat on the closed toilet lid.

 

“I don’t think I can.” Clint’s voice was muffled as he pressed his face into Phil’s stomach.

 

“How about you just sleep now, and wash up tomorrow?”

 

“ _No_. I want--can’t you just...help me?” 

 

Phil tightened his gentle hug around Clint’s head. “Yes. Absolutely. Um…” Phil stepped aside and turned the shower off, the silence suddenly ringing around them. “Okay, please don’t get mad at the suggestion, but,” Phil pushed the shower curtain completely to the side. “Can I help you with a bath?”

 

Clint shook his head but then shrugged and nodded with weary acceptance. “Sure. Whatever...Wait, I mean, thanks. Sorry.” He carefully pressed fingertips against his head around the reddened marks of a contusion, a headache evident, Phil was certain of it.

 

“I don’t mind. Thank you for letting me help.” Phil kissed his temple where it looked unblemished and then turned on the faucet to run hot water.

 

The tub wasn’t the cleanest, but it wasn’t intolerably dirty either. Still, Phil laid a bath towel along the bottom as it filled, and squeezed shampoo into the stream so it bubbled and filled the room with the scent of what promised to be ‘ocean breeze’. 

 

Clint leaned on Phil as he undressed, stepping out of his untied boots and medical scrub pants, letting Phil help him with his socks and shirt. The overhead lighting was harsh over Clint’s nudity, pale and splotchy-pink, scrapes and bruises still raw and red. Clint was ordinarily the very picture of virility in Phil’s eyes, but he was vulnerable here, soft, in spite of the strength in the muscles that flexed as he moved. 

 

“I know this isn’t even the worst I’ve had, but damn,” Clint said, as he grunting as he stepped into the tub and sat down, and then hissed at the water temperature. “You always forget this part, don’t you?”

 

“Maybe _you_ do. Is it too hot?”

 

Clint exhaled as he settled back, eyes closed, and patted Phil’s hand. “It’s fine. Thanks, sugar.”

 

Phil sniffed at the sass, but rubbed Clint’s forearm and settled on the bath mat next to him, expelling a more forceful groan than he’d intended from the effort.

 

Clint opened his eyes then, concentrating an assessing gaze over Phil. His call sign was not for nothing, Phil thought. 

 

“Alright. You were there for my med eval, you’ve seen it all.” Clint waved his fingers at himself. “Now, tell me yours.”

 

“Well, the usual,” Phil said, reaching for the bottle of bodywash, deciding to wash Clint with his own bare hands. Clint raised an eyebrow when he saw what Phil intended but made no move to stop him.

 

“Bruised knuckles. Bruised face,” Phil said, giving him a deadpan look to display the obvious. “That concussive blast that knocked me into the wall left a wicked knot on the back of my head.”

 

Clint raised his hand and Phil leaned forward, letting Clint gingerly stroke through his hair to feel the bump and Phil took advantage of the closeness to slide his soapy hands up into Clint’s armpits.

 

“Ow,” Clint said, in concern for the bump on Phil’s head. 

 

“Eh.” Phil shrugged. “And, a jammed ankle and knee from landing badly.”

 

Phil slid wet soapy hands down Clint’s arm and kissed the hand that had caressed his head. “What I’ve got is nothing...” he said, leaving open the implication of Clint’s comparable wounds. 

 

Phil soaped across Clint’s torso, his ribs vivid with purple bruising. Clint closed his eyes and rest his head again.

 

“It looks bad, but if it weren’t for the suit Stark made, all those boot strikes wouldda broke every bone I got.”

 

Phil squeezed more bodywash into his palms and then began a soapy glide from Clint’s knee, bent and poking up out of the water and then sloshing gently into the water as he worked up Clint’s thigh. He wouldn’t bother with this part, but Clint had mentioned thinking he’d leaked when kicked in the groin, but Phil paused. “I can skip this part, or, or you can do it?”

 

Clint squinted open one eye, peeking at Phil, and then down at the water, and then closed his eye again. “Knock yourself out,” he said, letting his knees fall further open.

 

Phil was as gentle as he could be while still trying to be firm enough so as not be irritating. He had seen, as Clint said, and his injury looked miserable. 

 

Phil had stood right beside him in medical while Agent Encinas performed the awkward ultrasound, and thankfully, ruled out testicular torsion and tearing, but he was still badly bruised and swollen, worse damage to the left. 

 

Clint’s face scrunched up and his mouth opened in a silent shout, pressing a hand to himself, effectively trapping Phil’s hand between his own hand and his body.

 

“Damn. Okay. Maybe not.”

 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” Phil said, not moving. “I tried to be gentle.”

 

“You were, darlin’,” Clint said, very slowly pulling Phil’s hand away with a whimper. “It was those angry dudes with the kickin’ boots that weren’t so gentle.”

 

He sat back again, looking all the more exhausted and in pain, so Phil finished washing his legs and feet, paying extra care not to tickle, and then let the water drain.

 

Clint brushed his teeth while Phil stripped and took a shower. He emerged to find Clint already in bed, naked and still slightly damp around the nape.

 

“Hey, do you want something to wear?” he asked, climbing in behind Clint. “I’m not complaining, mind you, but I don’t want you to be cold.” 

 

“Hm-mm,” Clint declined with a grunt.

 

“Okay, were you able to, you know, to go?”

 

“Phil. I love you. Thank you for the rescue. Merry Christmas. But don’t ask me about my pee.”

 

“Okay, but I just--”

 

“Shhh.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

~

**Author's Note:**

> The Agent Mack portrayed here was seen in Season 1, episode 3.
> 
> My thanks to Q, C, and especially R for looking this over and tidying it. <3


End file.
